Cattitude (34 page)

Max felt as if the top of his head would fly
off. He stood, swayed, and sat again. “I’ll have to get her.” He
pushed to his feet again.

“Don’t be stupid.” Ted jumped off the chair,
his hand out to stop Max. “You’re not ready to run a marathon.
Plus, you’ve been puking your guts out. You need to brush your
teeth and take a bath.”

“Get my clothes,” he ground out.

“You’re as stubborn as... I don’t know...
Mom?” He laughed at Max’s glare. “Tell you what. You take a bath
and I’ll fetch Sorcha. What do you say? About fifteen minutes?”

“Ten,” he said as Ted walked out the door. He
needed to see that Sorcha was safe and unharmed in the next ten
minutes, or he didn’t know what he’d do.

***

Max’s muscles felt atrophied, his bones
creaking like an old man’s. He forced his sluggish body to move,
taking less than ten minutes to shower while his mind shot out
thoughts faster than the showerhead gushed water. Whatever he’d
taken last night hadn’t damaged his brain, for which he was
grateful. If Sorcha agreed, he wouldn’t prosecute Caroline.

It was embarrassing and would bring him
unwelcome publicity. Imagining his picture on the cover of a
tabloid, he fought an urge to throw up. His heartbeat thumped
against his ribcage, and moments passing before his rapid breathing
slowed.

Sorcha. It all hinged on her.

Brushing his teeth, he looked in the mirror
and saw a man who needed a shave and had a hard glint in his eyes.
He wanted to make the decisions. He didn’t want to leave it up to
Sorcha. But if Sorcha had fought Caroline for him, letting her make
the call was the right thing to do.

She had fought for him.

His mouth foaming with toothpaste, he stopped
brushing and stared at his image. The glint in his eyes softened as
the realization hit him.

Sorcha loved him.

The independent and sometimes self-centered
woman would not have put herself in danger if she didn’t love
him.

He spit out the toothpaste and rinsed his
mouth. From the hall, he heard the door open. He set down the glass
and strode out of the bathroom, his shirt unbuttoned and his mind
made up.

She stood by the dresser, watching him with
her inscrutable green eyes. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t read
them. He knew how she felt—and he felt the exact same emotion.

“You love me!” he said.

Gladness filled Belle. Max was unhurt! Lucky
for Caroline. If Max had been hurt, Belle would have hunted
Caroline down and killed her. She knew where the sharpest knives
were kept, and she knew how to use them.

“Yes,” she said. “I do.” Why would she lie
about it? People on
The Love Chronicles
lied all the time
and it never made sense to Belle. If you loved you should say so.
If you hated, you should never talk to the other person. Although,
she admitted, if people never talked to people they hated on
The
Love Chronicles
, no one would talk to anyone else.

She hated Caroline, and she would be happy to
never talk to her again in her life.

Max took two strides and scooped her against
his chest. The next second, his head bent and his lips captured
hers.

She gave in to the heat. Max. This was the
man she’d loved for four years. The man who took her in as a
kitten, then later as a woman with no home. The man who was always
strong for his brothers and sisters and everyone else, even wicked
Caroline, who didn’t deserve him anymore than a plant filled with
poison deserved the sun.

Her tongue slipped into his mouth. Was he
going to make love to her again? Should she let him? But how could
she stop him when she wanted him so much she burned?

He lifted his lips from hers.

No, put them back.
She flattened her
hands on each side of his head and tried to pull his mouth back to
hers, but he resisted.

“I love you too,” he said.

“I know.”

He threw his head back and bellowed with
laughter. She didn’t know what was so funny, but the sound of his
laugh made joy bubble up inside her.

Looking down, he smiled, happiness gleaming
in his eyes. “I feel as if a smokescreen was blocking my vision.
Now it’s gone and I can see clearly.”

She wished he’d stop talking. She could think
of better things to do. “Are you going to kiss me again?”

“Soon enough,” he murmured. His hands came up
to the sides of her head, his thumbs drawing circles on the sides
of her temples. “I need to tell you something.”

“If you must.”

His mouth quirked, but his eyes grew sober.
“I’ve been dreaming of traveling since I’ve been a kid. I want you
to go with me.” He put his palm lightly over her lips. “Hear me
out, then you can talk. If you can’t bring yourself to travel, I’ll
stay here. With you.”

He drew his hand back from her mouth. “Will
you come with me, or should I stay with you? Tell me and I’ll do
it. I’m being honest and open, and I want you to be the same.”

She became very still. Inside her, she felt
her heartbeat slow, like at a funeral she’d seen on TV. Sad, her
heart said, sad, sad, sad.

“I can be honest,” she said, but she
swallowed and stepped backward.

He held out his hand, as if to stop her. She
shook her head.

“I’m not Sorcha.”

His brow furrowed. “I talked to your parents
and your neighbors. What are you talking about?”

She lifted her chin. Even for a cat, saying
this was hard.

“I’m Belle.”

“What?”

“I’m your cat, Belle. I’ve been living with
you since I was a kitten. That day you left the house because your
mother’s car broke, remember? The day you thought I disappeared?
That’s the day Caroline tried to kill me. She threw me into the
windshield of a car. The car went into the ditch. The driver of
that car was Sorcha. She fell out and we changed bodies.”

He shook his head, as if trying to shake her
words out of his brain. “I should’ve taken you to the hospital
after all. You have brain damage.”

“Ask me anything.” She grabbed his arm. “Ask
me something Belle would know and Sorcha wouldn’t.”

He pulled away from her and stepped back.
“You need to see a doctor. This time I’m insisting.”

“Ask me.” She wanted to slap his face. Were
all humans this thickheaded? Or just men?

He stared at her, shaking his head.

“Okay, I’ll tell you how you found me.”

A muscle ticked in his cheek. “I heard
meowing outside. It was winter, just over four years ago. You were
shivering on the back porch. Everyone knows that.”

“Everyone knows a lie.”

His face went still, his shoulders stiff, his
eyes guarded.

“I was living with a lady in one of your
apartments. She never played with me or petted me. But every time
you came, you petted me and talked to me. One day, you came to look
at the carpet. When you left, I snuck out and followed you into
your car. Instead of returning me, you kept me.”

“No one knows that.” He stared at her with
disbelief, shaking his head. “No one.”

“Except me. I chose you then, and I choose
you now.”

“Don’t say that. Tell me it’s not true.”

She stepped toward him.

He put out his palms, holding her away from
him. “Tell me you’re lying.”

“I’m not. I’m Belle.”

“You’re Belle my cat.” He looked as if he’d
received a blow to his head.

“I’m Belle but not a cat anymore.” She held
out her hands to him. She was human now. Couldn’t he see?

“So all the time you were looking for Belle,
you were really looking for—”

“The real Sorcha.” She nodded. Finally he was
getting it.

“Why? What were you going to do when you
found her?”

“Change back.”

He made a sound in his throat, as if he
wanted to throw up again.

“That was before I loved you the way a woman
loves a man,” she said quickly. “I didn’t think I could ever be a
human, but for you I will.”

Without another word, he turned and left the
room.

***

“That’s all right, darling.” Melanie Deavers
sat up in bed and patted her hair, looking in the mirror across the
room. “I know you’ve been under a lot of stress lately.”

Bob stiffened, looking at his wife’s perfect
profile. It should be perfect after all the money she’d paid her
plastic surgeon. He pulled on his boxers. “What do you know about
my stress?”

She dragged her gaze from her reflection.
“Don’t be that way. Of course I know you’ve been having a little
trouble choosing a new hotel. No one blames you. After selecting a
string of winners, it’s natural for you to be hesitant. The entire
world is waiting to see what your next move will be.”

His knees didn’t want to hold him. He gripped
the bedpost at the foot of the bed. “Who told you?” he asked, his
voice strained. “What else do you know?”

Her eyes widened. “I heard you talking to
your father.”

The tension eased only slightly. She didn’t
know about the psychic. Of course, she didn’t. Melanie had merely
overheard Bob’s father calling him a coward and insinuating in his
usual icy tones that he’d lost his nerve.

Only three people knew the truth. Himself,
Phil...and Sorcha.

No wonder he couldn’t complete the act of
sex.

No wonder he couldn’t choose a new hotel.

Sorcha was still alive. Any day, he’d see her
face in the tabloids. Maybe even on one of the sleazier TV
shows.

He’d be humiliated. His children would be
confused. His father would look at him with scorn. He’d be charged
with murder. Go to prison. After all, he’d killed before.

He needed to stop her. Now.

He reached for his pants. If Phil wasn’t
getting the job done, he’d do it himself. It should take an hour
and a half to drive to the motel where Phil was staying. With any
luck, he’d be home before rush hour, everything taken care of.

“Where are you going?” Melanie asked.

He wondered what she would say if he replied
that he was off to kill a woman.
“That’s nice, just make sure
you wash your hands and don’t get caught.”

“To the office,” he said.

“You work too hard.” She slid out of bed, so
slender each one of her ribs showed. Instead of dressing, she
looked at herself in the full length mirror, turning from side to
side. Bob knew she wasn’t admiring herself, she was searching for
imperfections that needed to be taken care of.

“I would hate it if you worked yourself to
death,” she said.

She looked surprised when he laughed
wildly.

The scratches on Caroline’s hands mirrored
the way she felt inside, scraped and scabbed over. And the bruise
on her cheek... She dropped her hands and peered into the mirror on
her living room wall and felt ill. Her face, her precious face. She
stared at her flawed image, enthralled and horrified. And, above
all, enraged, her body shaking with a fury so big that the state of
Wisconsin was too small to hold it.

On the couch behind her, Brenda held her cell
phone to her ear, telling her boss she had to take care of her sick
daughter. She wasn’t lying, Caroline thought. She was sick. Sick to
death of things going wrong.

The instant Brenda dropped her cell phone
into her purse, Caroline whipped around. “You should’ve gone to
work. I’m not changing my mind.”

“Let it go.” Brenda stood. “It’s over. We’ll
find another multi-millionaire. Maybe we’ve been setting our sights
too low. We can look for a billionaire. Someone older. We can go to
Florida or Arizona.”

“I can’t think of that now.” Caroline glanced
at the scratches again, the memories of her humiliation flooding
back.

Ted, Tory, Phil and Sorcha looking at her
with various expressions of surprise and shock. They saw her naked
and bleeding, and they knew what she’d done.

Max was never going to marry her now.

He wasn’t going to let her finish decorating
his house and use it for a showcase either.

He probably wasn’t going to pay her.

“It isn’t fair,” she said, and the words
didn’t come out whiny but like the flow of lava, hot and
destructive. “One minute success is so close I can smell the stock
certificates in my name. The next I’m rolling on the floor with a
crazy woman. This happens to me every time I think I’m onto
something good. I’m so fucking sick of it.”

Brenda tsked. “Of course you are. That woman
should be locked up and the key thrown away. What civilized human
acts like that?”

Caroline rubbed her forehead. She’d taken her
Prozac but it didn’t stop the ringing inside her mind. Didn’t stop
the whisper that said,
Kill her, kill her, kill her.

She strode to the cherry wood Queen Anne
writing desk in the corner. Feeling beneath the panel, she pressed
down and a hidden secret drawer opened. She reached in. When her
hand came out, she was holding the gun Emery had bragged about
buying from a street person, as if that would impress her.

The gun felt solid in her hand, the coolness
of the metal warming in her grip, and at the same time cooling the
anger, changing it to an icy anger, a thousand times more dangerous
than heat.

Even though she’d loaded it before putting it
in the drawer, she double-checked to see if it still held bullets.
This time nothing was going wrong.

“Honey, please,” Brenda said, her voice
strained. “What you did to Emery was one thing. That wasn’t about
revenge, that was about money. Let’s go on with our lives and be
grateful they don’t charge you with anything.”

“It would be their word against ours.” She
slid the gun into her Prada handbag. She didn’t know much about
guns, but you pointed, pulled the trigger, and the other person
died. What else did she need to know? “I’m tired of people shitting
on my parade.”

“At least promise you won’t let anyone see
you.”